A Letter to My Partner
by TheFarceHunter
Summary: Sasha writes Milla a letter. Oneshot may change according to popularity. Teen for mature themes.


maA/N: Hola, hola! Glad there was some good feedback on my other one-shot! Here's another one! I might actually add on to this one, though. Sorry, Lyre, but I really think another chapter would just ruin my other story. Thanks for the love, though! Tim Schafer owns all, etc., etc.

A Letter To My Partner

Agent Vodello,

I never thought I would be writing you a letter, nonetheless under such circumstances as these. I am glad to inform you that our target, Oublie, and three of his henchmen have successfully been captured and returned to their respective holding cells. Their trials will resume on Monday, the twenty-third. Unfortunately, we could not catch Oublie's accomplice, the cousin, before he ended his own life with that interfering police officer's pistol. It was better for him, I must say. Truman would not have given him the sentence he would have liked. I'm not surprised that he killed himself, actually. It is in these criminals' nature to do harm and then find any way out of the consequences that they can. If you were here, you probably would have disagreed, telling me that it wasn't their fault that they had gone mad. You once told me that it was their broken home, their weakened hearts, that inspired such heinous crimes. Personally, I beg to differ. Agent Hayner agrees, and he couldn't find the good in someone if it bit him on the ass. Maybe it's just me. I like to think that there are just some people out there who can't hold life any better than they can hold their liquor.

Agent Vodello, I can't fathom what you would be thinking if you were here right now. Milla, right. I must get used to this first-name basis that everyone finds so vital to life. You always said that it wouldn't be a partnership if we weren't close enough to call each other by our first names. I suppose the term "partner" is ambiguous. I never thought that we would get _this _close, but friends, well, that is to be expected, if the match Truman made was any good. Nobody thought we would ever get along; your spunky personality and my bland one are like oil and water, and yet, they seem to mix quite well. When I first saw you, I didn't know what to think, honestly. You were wearing a bright, orange and green dress and some black tights-like pants that females seem to like so much. I never understood the notion of wearing tights, myself. Your hair was tied back, and you were wearing those strange, aquamarine earrings that you said that your former partner gave you once. I never liked those things. Nevertheless, you were extremely beautiful, and I was an awkward eighteen-year old. We both know how well that first meeting went. Remember when I spilled coffee all over myself? I felt much better when you laughed, and I laughed along with you. Later that night, I swore like a maniac. I thought I had given you a horrible impression, but in reality, it was exactly the type of thing I am predisposed to. Frankly, I think I must still be that same, awkward eighteen-year old. This morning, I spilled some cheap coffee from the same mug on myself, and I thought of that day. I blame the mug.

You know, this reminds me of the time I proposed to you. I was quite overwhelmed by the prospect, in all honesty, and those five extra mental blocks I put up to shield my thoughts from Razputin didn't do a damn thing. That kid is getting better and better at prying, which I give full credit to Miss Zanotto for. As she learns to develop her own shields, Raz finds a way to work around them. It makes for some good entertainment during the afternoons, but I'll save that tangent for later. Anyhow, Raz heard of my plans and proceeded to bother me for about five hours until he saw the ring himself. He didn't think I had the biological provisions, so to say, to get the courage. I don't blame him. Still, I did ask you, eventually. You know, marriage was never on my list of necessary experiences, but as you once pointed out, perhaps I was just missing the big picture in life. I've never found anything that interesting outside of my training and experiments, except, of course, for Ford Cruller. He, in himself, is the most interesting thing I've ever seen in my life. Right now, you would have slapped me and told me how mean I am. Well, if you did, I would laugh and tell you that I'm not even being sarcastic and that it 'wasn't meant in a bad way.' He always had that eccentric way about him, even before the duel. I didn't realize how much that accident changed him until I saw him in the infirmary. He was completely white, Milla. I could have sworn he was dead. Now that he's getting older and older-we all are getting old, aren't we?-I think sometimes of what will happen when he does die. Life still goes on, of course; we have all seen friends and acquaintances die on missions. One gets used to seeing people disappear, in this line of work. Sometimes, it is one by one, but that one time on your mission in Guam, ten people died all at once. I remember because you were the only one left alive. I hate to bring up such things at a time like this, Milla, but for some strange reason, I can't help but think that the greatest danger of our business is believing that we can save everyone. You never forgave yourself for what happened to those agents, and you were reminded of the children you lost in the fire. I can tell you that if they didn't die then, they would have died in the other mission up in Norway, or the search for the Psitanium stash in Texas, or even at the case in Québec. You probably would have thought me to be heartless, but it is true. Who knows? Thirty years later, they might have died in a nursing home, bored out of their minds and feeling useless until death. At least the two of us do not risk living a dull life. Otherwise, what do we have? Birth, marriage and death; actually, isn't that all we truly experience? That isn't to say that I regret proposing, mind you. I was the happiest I ever have been when you beamed at me, blushed a little, and nodded your head almost hysterically while shouting, "yes!"… It was if you were waiting ten years for me to ask you that question.

There was no sarcasm at all in that last comment, by the way. None at all. I was only procrastinating for the longest while, trying to understand what irrational feelings were surging through me. I hope that "irrational" does not carry any negative connotations for you. I am only saying that, well, I'm a scientist, and even though I am aware that feelings cannot be entirely suppressed, I never thought I'd have any sexual interests whatsoever. You, of course, are extremely empathetic, beautiful, and devoted to your work, and even a cynical nerd like myself can appreciate that. However, the fact that we are partners in work is something that should have severely hindered my desire to date you. However self-destructive and useless it is to mourn our fellow agents' deaths on missions, I still think about everyone's imminent demise. I have often worried about what I would do if something happened to you, and I have not yet found any answers. Agent Juno left behind a wife and two kids. They are coping, but the wife wished that her husband could have lived to see his children graduate from high school. I lost my mother at such a young age that it was as if she were a beautiful memory. These boys are old enough to have more time with Juno, but again, it is the same either way. It is extremely difficult to become involved with someone in such a hazardous job as ours, but it wouldn't have changed anything if he died at seventy in the home, leaving his forty year-old kids and sixty-eight year-old wife behind. It isn't a cruel notion; it is the truth.

Milla, I hope that what I am saying doesn't sound apathetic. I embrace life just as much as anyone else. If I ever said this to your face, you would have laughed at me. I really do enjoy life, which is why I say these things. Why would we want to prolong our existences if they were miserable? In the instability and danger of being a Psychonaut, I guess I feel the masochistic thrill of living one more day, even though it is no secret that eventually, I will die, whether it is at age thirty-eight or eighty. I would never allow your life to be miserable after all the good you have done for everyone. When we were on missions together, you helped the victims feel as if our agency wasn't just a whistle-blowing goose chase, which it often feels like now that Truman is stepping down. Even on that mission today, which I have admitted to be hopeless, you did all you could. When Oublie's cousin shot himself, you used up all your energy trying to stop the bullet. Unfortunately, he noticed and used the remainder of his own psychic aggression to push you over the ledge near his hideout. I would scold you about the importance of keeping some energy at all times, but I'm afraid it is too late and too petty to do anything at all but wait. I cannot stand to see you in this state of being between life and death. As I see the blank expression from under your closed eyelids, I understand that you aren't here with me. I can't look at your sleeping form any longer; it kills me to see you in this way.

Milla, please wake up. There is no way that the agency could be complete with you out of commission like this. You made everyone laugh, especially Razputin and Liliana. You were their mother, their teacher, and most importantly, their confidante. Frankly, you still are, and you always will be. You were the only one who could get me out of the lab for no reason whatsoever. I took dance classes with you, and even when I faked a ruptured spleen (hey, it _has_ happened under exertion) to get out of it, you saw right through me and made me continue. I actually enjoyed myself, but you must promise not to tell Razputin. He would never let it go. Enough of the digressions already, I know. I can't help but avoid the topic, for my own sanity's sake. I cannot get a new partner, like I could when I was young and detached from the entire agency. You will always be my partner, Milla.

If you receive this letter and I am not here, I am getting a coffee. And no, that isn't my new code for 'smoking twelve packs of cigarettes to hide my cancer-stick addiction' from you, even though I would surely love that right about now. I decided to quit this morning, though, so that won't be possible.

I will be waiting outside,

Sasha


End file.
